Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(27)
Breaking through the trees, he saw the flames. They filled the night sky with flickering shards of orange along the banks of Loch Earn, engulfing everything in their wake.
His eyes blurred, stinging with smoke and disbelief. His home was … gone.
People were everywhere. Running. Screaming. Trying to escape the fire and the Campbell swordsmen who'd overrun the village.
He knew what it meant but didn't want to believe it.
He knew his father would never let this happen … not while there was a breath left in his body.
Patrick raced toward the keep, not heeding the flames. As he drew closer, the bodies of his father's guardsmen confronted him like angels of doom at the gates of hell.
Bile rose in his throat, but he didn't stop running. Not until he saw the familiar plaid in a bloody pile at the foot of the stairs. “No!” He threw himself on the still body, burying his head against the powerful chest, not caring that tears were streaming down his cheeks. “Father!”
Someone tried to pull him off and he reacted, slashing his sword in an arc but connecting only with air.
The man who'd grabbed him swore, holding him by the neck in a viselike grip. Patrick thrashed wildly, trying to break free from the Campbell warrior's hold.
“What should we do with him?” the man asked.
“Kill the whelp,” another man said. “If he's old enough to carry a sword, he's old enough to die by one. Besides, MacGregors are a vengeful lot. Look at his eyes. He'll be back for us one day.”
Patrick hit the ground hard and saw the blade flashing above his head.
He wanted to stop the dream. Wanted to change the memory. He tried to thrash away, but it wouldn't let him go….
“No!” His mother's voice came from out of the darkness. “Don't hurt my …”
Patrick's chest burned as the images assaulted him mercilessly. His mother jumping in front of him. The Campbell unable to stop the sword. Her chest splayed open instead of his.
“… son.”
The sound echoed in his head relentlessly—the gurgle of death. He would never forget that sound for as long as he lived.
“Mother!” The cry that had torn from his lungs had not been human. It had been twisted with agony and rage and helplessness. He'd gone berserk, lifting the heavy sword he'd dropped at his father's side with strength he didn't know he possessed. It was strength born of hatred. The strength of a boy thrust brutally into manhood.
He remembered the surprised expressions of the two dead men as he'd left them before he'd escaped into the forest. But it would never be enough to replace the parents he'd lost.
Killed by Campbell greed.
A soothing hand on his forehead eased the haunting memories. The dream faded, and he slept.
Patrick woke to the sound of an angel. Or perhaps he'd died and gone to heaven, for he seemed to be floating on clouds so soft was the surface upon which he lay.
He tried to open his eyes, but they resisted; his lids seemed to be weighted down with lead. He attempted to lift his head, but when the tiny movement caused an ax to split through his skull, he thought better of it. Content to float on the cloud a little longer, enfolded in soft linen and warm furs, his cheek pressed against a pillow of feather, the subtle scent of lavender filling his nose, and the angel's song lulling him back to sleep.
His eye cracked open. Cloud? Pillow? Angel? What in Hades … ? He wasn't floating in the heavens, but lying in a bed. It had been so long since he'd slept on anything other than dirt and brush, he almost didn't recognize it.
Where am I?
He tried to remember, but his brain wouldn't work properly. Everything was disjointed … fuzzy.
Until the bedclothes were pulled back and a velvety soft hand skidded along his bare chest. The gentle touch was like a firebrand, startling him awake—fully awake. His eyes snapped open and he grabbed a delicate wrist, looking into the crystal-clear blue eyes of his angel, Elizabeth Campbell. A very shocked Elizabeth Campbell.
She gasped and the heavenly song came to a sudden stop. “You're awake!”
“Where am I?” he demanded, his voice as dark as his head, hating this feeling of confusion. He was lying in a strange bed half-naked, his head splitting apart, more thirsty than he'd ever been in his life.
What had she done to him? Had she discovered who he was? Had he been imprisoned?
For the first time, he looked around the room. If this was a prison, it was the most luxurious one he'd ever seen. The room was enormous, perhaps twenty feet square, with an unusual vaulted stone ceiling and plastered walls painted a soothing yellow. Two large leaded-glass windows enabled an abundance of sunlight to spill across the polished wooden floors. There was a large stone fireplace at the opposite end, and fine furniture scattered across the room. In addition to oil lamps, he counted two silver candelabra. Above his head, he saw a canopy of heavy silk curtains between intricately carved wooden bedposts. The bed, the decoration, the furnishings … all were rich enough to house a king.
He squeezed her wrist a little more tightly and repeated roughly, “Where am I?”
“I heard you the first time you bellowed at me,” she reprimanded him with a sharp glance, not perturbed in the least by his burst of anger. Anger that had cowed many men. Hell, he must be getting soft. “You are in the tower of Castle Campbell,” she explained. “In my cousin's bedchamber, actually.”